Meanwhile that little disappointment made her delight the more inSir James Chettam's readiness to set on foot the desired improvements.He came much oftener than Mr. Casaubon, and Dorothea ceased to findhim disagreeable since he showed himself so entirely in earnest; for hehad already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood'sestimates, and was charmingly docile. She proposed to build a couple ofcottages, and transfer two families from their old cabins, which couldthen be pulled down, so that new ones could be built on the old sites. SirJames said "Exactly," and she bore the word remarkably well.
Certainly these men who had so few spontaneous ideas might bevery useful members of society under good feminine direction, if theywere fortunate in choosing their sisters-in-law! It is difficult to saywhether there was or was not a little wilfulness in her continuing blindto the possibility that another sort of choice was in question in relationto her. But her life was just now full of hope and action: she was notonly thinking of her plans, but getting down learned books from thelibrary and reading many things hastily (that she might be a little lessignorant in talking to Mr. Casaubon), all the while being visited withconscientious questionings whether she were not exalting these poordoings above measure and contemplating them with that self-satisfactionwhich was the last doom of ignorance and folly.
CHAPTER IV.
1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves.
2d Gent. Ay, truly: but I think it is the world
That brings the iron.
"Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish," said Celia,as they were driving home from an inspection of the new building-site.
"He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one wouldimagine," said Dorothea, inconsiderately.
"You mean that he appears silly."
"No, no," said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand onher sister's a moment, "but he does not talk equally well on all subjects." "I should think none but disagreeable people do," said Celia, in herusual purring way. "They must be very dreadful to live with. Only think!at breakfast, and always."
Dorothea laughed. "O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" Shepinched Celia's chin, being in the mood now to think her very winningand lovely—fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were notdoctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than asquirrel. "Of course people need not be always talking well. Only onetells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well."
"You mean that Sir James tries and fails."
"I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James?It is not the object of his life to please me."
"Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?"
"Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister—that is all." Dorotheahad never hinted this before, waiting, from a certain shyness on suchsubjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should beintroduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once—
"Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantrippwas brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James's man knewfrom Mrs. Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldestMiss Brooke."
"How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?" saidDorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in hermemory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation. "Youmust have asked her questions. It is degrading."
"I see no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me. It is better to hearwhat people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions.I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and hebelieves that you will accept him, especially since you have been sopleased with him about the plans. And uncle too—I know he expects it.Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you."
The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that thetears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans wereembittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving thatshe recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account ofCelia.
"How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuousmanner. "I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: Iwas barely polite to him before."
"But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun tofeel quite sure that you are fond of him."
"Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?"said Dorothea, passionately.
"Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fondof a man whom you accepted for a husband."
"It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond ofhim. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have towardsthe man I would accept as a husband."
"Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, becauseyou went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, andtreading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it isimpossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. That'syour way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; andshe was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe. Whocan tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on us beings ofwider speculation?
"It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. "I can have nomore to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him Iwill have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes filledagain with tears.
"Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day ortwo to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood." Celiacould not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in an amiablestaccato. "It is very hard: it is your favorite fad to draw plans."
"Fad to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellow-creatures' houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. Howcan one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with suchpetty thoughts?"
No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover hertemper and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself.She was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and thepurblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longerthe eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white nullifidian,worse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim's Progress." The fadof drawing plans! What was life worth—what great faith was possiblewhen the whole effect of one's actions could be withered up into suchparched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriage, her cheekswere pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of sorrow, and heruncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, if Celia had notbeen close to her looking so pretty and composed, that he at onceconcluded Dorothea's tears to have their origin in her excessivereligiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a journey tothe county town, about a petition for the pardon of some criminal.
"Well, my dears," he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, "Ihope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away."
"No, uncle," said Celia, "we have been to Freshitt to look at thecottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch."
"I came by Lowick to lunch—you didn't know I came by Lowick. AndI have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea—in the library,you know; they lie on the table in the library."
It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrillingher from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the earlyChurch. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken off,and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr. Brookewas detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library, he foundDorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets which hadsome marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubon's,—taking it in as eagerly asshe might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, hot,dreary walk.
She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sadliability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem.
Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm-chair, stretched his legs towards thewood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dicebetween the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildlytowards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had nothingparticular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she wasaware of her uncle's presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she wouldhave been interested about her uncle's merciful errand on behalf of thecriminal, but her late agitation had made her absent-minded.
"I came back by Lowick, you know," said Mr. Brooke, not as if withany intention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usualtendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle ofhuman speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. "I lunched thereand saw Casaubon's library, and that kind of thing. There's a sharp air,driving. Won't you sit down, my dear? You look cold."
Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times,when her uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to beexasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle andbonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting upher beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or smallhands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to beholding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and tothink, which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt hadissued in crying and red eyelids.
She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. "What newshave you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?"
"What, poor Bunch?—well, it seems we can't get him off—he is to behanged."
Dorothea's brow took an expression of reprobation and pity.
"Hanged, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. "PoorRomilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn'tknow Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is."
"When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he mustof course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about makingacquaintances?"
"That's true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been abachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; itwas my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I nevermoped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants acompanion—a companion, you know."
"It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion," saidDorothea, energetically.
"You like him, eh?" said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise,or other emotion. "Well, now, I've known Casaubon ten years, ever sincehe came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him—any ideas, youknow. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop—that kind ofthing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you,my dear."
Dorothea could not speak.
"The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaksuncommonly well—does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not beingof age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him Ithought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. I said,my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn't think itnecessary to go into everything. However, the long and the short of it is,that he has asked my permission to make you an offer of marriage—ofmarriage, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with his explanatory nod. "Ithought it better to tell you, my dear."
No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke's manner, buthe did really wish to know something of his niece's mind, that, if therewere any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling he, as amagistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for, wasunmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, he repeated,"I thought it better to tell you, my dear."
"Thank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering tone. "I amvery grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accepthim. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw."
Mr. Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone,"Ah? … Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam isa good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere againstyour wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage,and that sort of thing—up to a certain point, you know. I have alwayssaid that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I havegood reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it,you know."
"It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam," saidDorothea. "If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake."
"That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thoughtChettam was just the sort of man a woman would like, now."
"Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle," said Dorothea,feeling some of her late irritation revive.
Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustiblesubject of study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state ofscientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam with nochance at all.
"Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry—I mean for you. It'strue, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. Ishould say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,—ifyou like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can't haveeverything. And his income is good—he has a handsome propertyindependent of the Church—his income is good. Still he is not young,and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is notover-strong. I know nothing else against him."
"I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age," saidDorothea, with grave decision. "I should wish to have a husband whowas above me in judgment and in all knowledge."
Mr. Brooke repeated his subdued, "Ah?—I thought you had more ofyour own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your ownopinion—liked it, you know."
